Luck, Be A Newsie
by Gamester Cladsl
Summary: Newsies meets Guys and Dolls! Race and Spot are gamblers. They also have trouble committing to relationships. One frantic bet will change all that.


**Intro/Disclaimer:**

This fanfiction uses the settings, characters, etc of Newsies and the plots and some lines of Guys and Dolls. I own neither.

All additional plot lines belong to me as well as any original characters not mentioned below:

"Chloe Cormac/Trinket" belongs to Trinket

"Echo" belongs to Echo

"General Midnight" belong to Midnight

"Carmen" belongs partly to me and partly to Aimsley Cladsl

"Chrissy" belongs to Cookie

Even if you are not familiar with Guys and Dolls, you can still enjoy this fanfiction.

Enjoy!

**Luck, Be A Newsie**

_Part I: Betting Boys_

"Race ain't gonna like dis, Mush."

"I know, Blink. I told him ta pick Valentine, but he was so sure of dat Paul Revere horse."

"Paul Revere? Ain't he the first president?"

Kid Blink and Mush looked at each other and shrugged. It was then that Blink caught sight of him.

"Mush, look over there! It's Freddy the Force. Quick, get out da money."

Mush looked slightly puzzled. "But Race didn't give me any money. He said he was broke and that Valentine was a sure thing."

Blink's eyes widened and mouth opened, but he maintained a cool composure when he saw Freddy a few feet away.

"So, I see your boss lost again. Another one of his 'hot tips', I assume."

"Listen Freddy," said Blink," Racetrack ain't got the money to pay you'se right now. Just give him a little time. He'll give you his marker."

Freddy looked slightly annoyed, as if he was expecting this.

"Tell Racetrack that he don't gotta pay me back with money. I have another payment in mind."

"What would dat be?"

"A while ago, Racetrack told everyone that his crap game was gonna be tomorrow night. So, I invited a friend from Chicago named Big Eddie. However, it's come to my attention that the crap game has no time or location, which tells me that it ain't gonna happen at all. Now, it took a lot of time and money for Big Eddie to come all the way here to New York, and he ain't gonna be very happy if he doesn't get to shoot some craps. Plus, da high-rollers are in town, and Spot Conlon is back from Jersey. That's a lot of money Racetrack can make. Now, I understand that the bulls have turned up the heat, but if these people were promised some action and don't get any, dere might be some problems. Tell Racetrack I'll see him tomorrow night."

And Freddy the Force walked off without another word.

Racetrack Higgins sat in a booth at Tibby's with his head in his hands, a cigar poking out between two fingers. The high-rollers were in town. The news was all over the place. Everyone was telling him about it. And yet he still couldn't find a place for his floating crap game.

About a month after the strike ended, Race lost a huge bet at the tracks. There was no way selling newspapers could give him the amount of money that he needed in time. So, he decided to host a crap game. He invited some newsies from all over the city, as well as some gambling friends he knew. Because he was hosting the game, he received a certain percentage of all the winnings. It worked like a charm. But for Racetrack, once is never enough. He became addicted. He began hosting crap games in different spots all over the city, drawing in more and more players each time. As he gained more costumers, he needed a way to tell them when and where the next game was going to be. So, he hired his two best friends, Mush and Kid Blink, to keep all the players informed. His floating crap game was becoming so popular that the police started to keep a close eye on it, but that was hard to do because they never knew exactly where it would take place. One cop in particular payed extra-special attention to the game. His name was Lieutenant Bradshaw. He and Racetrack had gotten to know each other quite well over the past few months. Bradshaw knew practically everything there was to know about Racetrack Higgins, especially his favorite hang-outs. This is what made it difficult to find a place for the crap game.

All of Racetrack's "regulars" were too scared to allow Race to host his crap game at their place. They weren't stupid. They knew about Lieutenant Bradshaw. And they weren't about to risk their businesses and freedom for some kid's crap game. There was one, though. A place called the "Biltmore Garage." The only problem was, the owner of the place demanded three hundred dollars.

Racetrack looked up when he heard his name.

"Heya Race," said Kid Blink, "I'se afraid we got some bad news for you."

"Don't bother, Blink. I already heard. Paul Revere lost. Didja give Freddy me marker?"

"He wouldn't take it, Race. He said that you'se could pay him back by hosting the game tomorrow night. He said some guy named Big Eddie came in from Chicago and ain't gonna be too happy if he came here for nothing."

It was Mush's turn to pipe up.

"Plus, da high-rollers are in town. And guess who else jist came back from Jersey?"

Race's eyes widened a bit. "Spot? He wasn't supposed to be back for another two weeks!"

"Dat's exactly why you gotta have that game! Spot's the highest player of them all. You could make a fortune!" exclaimed Blink.

"Yeah." Race sighed. "The only problem is findin' a place. All da usual places know that Bradshaw has turned up the heat, so they won't do it. The Biltmore Garage was willing, though. But they's askin' for three hundred bucks."

"Three hundred!" Blink and Mush yelped together.

At that moment, all three heard a little jingle, signaling the opening of the Tibby's door. In walked Spot Conlon. Without so much as a short survey of the restaurant, he slumped down into the booth closest to the door, obviously tired. Racetrack eyed him with a pathetic envy. _All dat money I could be making. If only I had three hundred bucks. Stupid Biltmore Garage. _His thoughts were interrupted when Kid Blink asked "What about da lodging house? I'm sure Kloppman and the guys won't mind. Most of dem are crap players anyway."

"Are you out of your mind? Bradshaw would be there before the game even got started!"

Racetrack was in a heap of trouble. And it seemed that, this time, there was no way out of it. He needed the crap game to go on tomorrow night. He was broke. Not only broke– in the hole. Plus, he didn't like the sound of this "Big Eddie" guy. Anyone who was angry and big was not a friend to Racetrack. He needed to do something, and quick. He looked over at Spot. Spot was a fairly successful gambler, maybe he could loan him some money. _Yeah right. That's the last thing you need– to owe any more people money._ And, three hundred dollars was no small amount. He watched as Spot sleepily ate his Tibby's roast beef. It's what he always ordered when he visited Manhattan.

And then it hit him. It hit him hard, like when he first realized Jack had gone scab. He _could_ get that roll of three hundred. Spot liked roast beef, yes, but hardly anyone else did. It was this information that convinced him he would get the money.

"Blink! Mush! I know how I can get dat three hundred."

"How!" They were both very curious to know.

"Run into the kitchen and find out exactly how many roast beef sandwiches Tibby's sold last week and also how many logs of knockwurst. Got dat?"

Both looked utterly confused.

"How many roast beefs?" Mush couldn't figure out why this information mattered.

"How much knockwurst?" Blink asked.

"No time for questions. Just go!" They hurried to the kitchen.

Racetrack smothered his cigar and cracked his knuckles. It was time to make a bet with the infamous Spot Conlon. Leader of the Brooklyn newsies and expert high-roller. As he was in the process of standing up, he heard a voice that made his pulse quicken and his heart drop to his stomach.

"Racetrack!"

The excited, chipper voice Race heard belonged to Echo, his fiancee. But what was she doing here? Wasn't she suppose to be at work? Then it dawned on him. It was their four year anniversary. They'd been engaged four years that day. _Oh crap. I didn't get her a present._

Echo worked as a song and dance girl for Medda at Irving Hall. That's how she met Racetrack. She had hazel eyes and long, wavy, brown hair. Both of these features captivated Race to no end. Ever since their engagement, Echo had been pestering Race about giving up gambling and getting married. He thought the very idea of it was absurd, but he kept promising Echo that they'd be married soon and poor, gullible Echo kept believing him. She constantly told him how much faith she had in him that he would change. It made Race feel guilty every time he looked at her.

"What's wrong, Racey?

"Nothing, doll, I'm just surprised to see you'se is all."

Echo smiled at his cuteness.

"You didn't think I was gonna miss seeing you on our anniversary, did you?"

Racetrack gulped. "Uh, about dat. I am sad to say that I did not get you a gift."

Echo held her hands on her hips, rolled her yes, and smiled. "Oh Racetrack, I know. That's why I didn't get you anything. Besides, just knowing that you haven't started running that silly crap game again is a gift enough for me." She paused and her smile dropped. "You _haven't_ been running the game, right?"

Race made a hand gesture to himself. "Would I do such a thing?" He smiled and gave a light laugh.

"Yes you would, Racetrack Higgins." Racetrack suddenly looked less confident. He needed give Echo a convincing lie and get rid of her before Spot Conlon finished lunch and went back to Brooklyn.

"Look, Echo, I'm working really hard to get a good job. Actually, dat's why I'm here. I have an interview with a man. He does big business. And, well, dolls make him nervous. So, I think it's best dat you go back to Irving Hall. Besides, you gotta get ready for the show tonight."

Echo's face lit up. "Oh Race! I'm so proud of you! And don't worry about that interview. You'll get the job. I have faith."

It was then that Kid Blink and Mush emerged from the kitchen and made their way towards Race and Echo rather quickly. They were about to tell Racetrack of their findings, but they noticed Echo. Everyone who attended Race's floating crap games knew never to let Echo know about them. It was partly out of respect for their game host, but also out fear that he would feel bad and stop hosting them. It was time for some clever code-talking. And Mush knew just what to do.

"Hey Race. The cook said that Tibby's is out of knockwurst because they _sold so much of it_ yesterday. We'll just have to get some tomorrow."

Race was very grateful that his friends didn't give anything away. He got worried when he saw them rushing out of the kitchen. But they never let him down.

"Oh well. Dat's the way things go sometimes, then. Blink, Mush, please accompany Echo back to Irving Hall."

"Oh, Race. I can get there fine by myself."

"I know you can, doll, but it's better to be safe than sorry, ain't it?"

Race and Echo embraced. He gave her a kiss on the cheek and promised that he'd be there after the show that night to pick her up. Echo, Mush ,and Kid Blink then left Tibby's. When he saw them turn the corner, he turned his attention back to Spot Conlon. With the information from the restaurant, he now knew that he could win the bet. Now all he had to do was make it. But– would Spot go for a three hundred dollar bet? Race was almost positive he would. Once, with his on eyes, Racetrack saw Spot bet another guy eight hundred dollars that one raindrop would beat another raindrop down a window. He was always making crazy bets like that. It gave him, as he described it, a thrill.

Spot Conlon sat in his little restaurant booth extremely tired and totally oblivious to his surroundings. He was just enjoying his tasty roast beef sandwich. It took a tap on the shoulder to make him realize that there was a person sitting across from him. He knew this person. It was Racetrack Higgins. Host of the infamous floating crap game that the cops could never quite catch.

"Heya, Race. Anything new?"

"Nah, jist the same old stuff. Why are you back so early? I thought you planned another two weeks."

Spot sighed. "Yeah I did, but I made some people angry when I kept winning bets with them."

"Oh," replied Racetrack. For him, this was good news. Spot was fresh on cash and all the more willing to place it up for a bet.

"How's dat fiancee of your's? Miss Echo? She still dragging you around?"

Race gave a small laugh. "Yeah, I guess so."

"Isn't it about time you got rid of her?"

"I don't wanna get _rid_ of her! I _love_ her! She makes me happy– most of the time." Spot rolled his eyes.

"Cool down, Race. I'm not saying that dolls are useless. But you can't stick with just _one._ They're good when they come in handy. Like... cough drops." Spot, impressed with his metaphor, smiled and took a bite of his sandwich. This reminded Racetrack of why he wanted to talk to Spot in the first place.

"I don't see how you can eat dose disgusting roast beef sandwiches all the time."

Spot almost choked on his food. He looked at Race murderously. "Disgusting! How can you'se call this disgusting when you and the Manhattan newsies always order that good-for-nothing knockwurst?"

This reaction was just what Race wanted. The more defensive Spot was, the more likely he was to make a bet. "Well, I'se sorry to burst your bubble, Spot, but most people would rather have knockwurst than roast beef. But I wonder if..."

Spot was impatient. "If what?"

"Now, Spot, would you say that Tibby's sells more roast beef or more knockwurst?"

Spot was slightly taken aback. "Well, judging by my own knowledge of what's good and what ain't, I'd have to say more roast beef."

Race narrowed his eyes a little. "Would you be willing to bet on it?"

"What?"

"Would you be willing to bet me, say three hundred dollars, that Tibby's sells more roast beef than knockwurst?" He tried to keep a cool composure because he was shaking hysterically on the inside.

It took Spot but a few seconds to realize what was going on. He smirked and raised his eyebrows in questioning surprise. "Why Racetrack Higgins. I never knew you to be da type to make bets on the spot. You always made your money from poker, black jack, and hosting."

Race sighed. "Have we got a bet or not?"

Spot stood up from the booth. If Race was trying to hide how desperate he was, he was not doing a very good job. "Racetrack, I am going to tell you a story. On the day I left home to make my way in da world, my daddy gave me some advice. 'Son,' my daddy says to me, 'One day in your travels, you will come across a man holding a deck of cards with the seal still on it. Now, this man will bet you that he will make the Jack of spades jump out of the deck and squirt cider in your ear. But, son, you do not accept this bet. Because as sure as you are standing there, you will end up with an ear full of cider.'"

Racetrack did not look impressed. "Spot, you're father left when you'se was two."

"Shut up. Dat's what he _would've_ said if he was there. Anyway da point is that I cannot accept your bet. Now, I ain't saying that you've been clocking Tibby's roast beef or nothin'..."

Race gestured to himself. "Would I do such a thing?"

Spot seemed to think about this as he sat down next to him. "Yes. You would. Anyway, if you're looking for a bet, I will bet you that same three hundred that you'se cannot name the color hat you have on." Spot quickly pulled the hat from Racetrack's head before he could get a glimpse of it. "Have we got a bet?" Race shook his head. Spot stood and patted his gambling pal on the back. He knew what it was like to be desperate and he didn't blame Race at all.

Mush and Kid Blink entered Tibby's to again see their boss and friend with his head in his hands. At least there was no cigar this time.

"What's the matta with him, Spot?" asked Mush

"I think he has a stomach ache. Maybe it was da knockwurst."

"No I don't think so." said Blink, "Otherwise, the cook would've said dat they sell more roast beef than knockwurst, not da other way around."

Race groaned. Spot just laughed.

Outside of Tibby's, the New York City streets were crowded with people, all trying to get to their own specific destination, not really paying attention to the world around them. The streets were also filled with cigar smoke, drinking, gambling, and crime. This was the perfect place for the Save a Soul Mission to begin its fight against the devil. The Catholic church purchased a building in Manhattan to be used as a mission home, where sinners could come to repent and be born again. The mission needed missionaries– people to run it and go out in search of lost souls. There were currently four missionaries living in the mission. Each day, they would walk around the city singing hymns and preaching to people who kept passing them by. One fo these missionaries was Chloe Cormac, a young woman with fair skin, dark green eyes, and strawberry blonde hair. Her missionary companions affectionately nicknamed her Trinket.

Chloe was nearing the end of her speech when a man stood right beside her and starting yelling to the crowd that he was selling solid gold watches for a quarter. The few people who had stayed for the whole speech all turned their attention to the man with the solid gold watches.

"Well," said Father Arvid, "at least most of them stayed through the first quarter of your speech."

"Don't worry, Trinket, they'll listen someday. We're bound to save a soul sooner or later," said Carmen, Chloe's friend and fellow missionary.

Chloe smiled and nodded her head in agreement. Of course she would always keep trying. However, lately it seemed that nothing was working or would ever work. She was beginning to feel hopeless.

"Alright," said Father Arvid, "let's move on to the next spot."

"Oh Race, Echo wanted to remind you to be there after the show to pick her up," announced Mush.

Racetrack, with his head still in his hands mumbled "Yes, dear." Realizing his mistake, he lifted his head up. "Not yes dear, I mean– ok, I'll be there."

Spot looked purely disgusted. "Yes, dear? Racetrack, what in the world have you gotten into?"

"You'se jist jealous dat I got a girl."

Spot let out a full laugh. "Yeah right, Race. I'm going back to Jersey tomorrow night and I can have any girl I want accompany me. But I _choose_ to go alone. There ain't any jealousy."

As Spot was speaking, Race was looking out the window. It was those sad missionaries chasing after people yet accomplishing nothing. Catching some of Spot's words, another idea hit him.

"_Any_ girl, you say?"

Spot gave a smug look, as if it was completely obvious. "Yeah. _Any_."

"Would you be willing to bet on that? Three hundred bucks that you can take any doll I pick to go to Jersey for dinner with you tomorrow night?"

Spot smirked. "Racetrack Higgins, you'se got yourself a bet. Now, name the doll."

Race motioned for Spot to sit next to him and pointed out the window. "I choose _her_."

Spot caught sight of a very pretty girl in a uniform clumsily running around trying to get people to listen to her. "Who is she?"

This time, it was Race's turn to smirk. "Sister Chloe Cormac. Missionary of da Save a Soul Mission."

Spot stood up to allow Race to exit the booth. He left along with his right hand men. Spot took another look at the beautiful, but stern and slightly awkward woman he was to take out to dinner the following night for a bet of three hundred dollars.

Spot was beginning to feel panicked.

"Daddy," Spot said out loud, "I've got cider in my ear."


End file.
